Pope's Assassin (39 page)

    Twenty minutes later they took off for Fiumicino. Sarah and Rafael, who had been accompanied on the flight to Paris by Gavache and Jean-Paul, were now alone, each absorbed in their own lives and thoughts. Rafael thought about speaking to her. It would be a good opportunity to find out everything that had happened, but ever since that one-sided conversation in Walker's Wine and Ale Bar, their rela tionship had cooled to the point where it could no longer be called a relationship. A relationship was what she had with Francesco, the Italian journalist. Yes, he knew about the Italian journalist. He tried to keep himself informed about her life through surveillance. He enjoyed thinking that she knew, although she couldn't have. After Francesco came into her life, Rafael felt he shouldn't interfere. He did, however, investigate Francesco's criminal record. He wouldn't have forgiven himself if he hadn't. After finding a clean record, except for a few traf fic tickets, he decided that she was in good company. Until Jacopo had burst into his classroom at the Gregorian to inform him about Zafer's death . . .

    He should go to her. Should he? He should. Should he? Nervous, he sighed deeply. No woman should leave him feeling like this. He had a relationship with God . . . not only with God, but with the church, and he owed them fidelity and loyalty. But he had to talk to Sarah. Did he? Yes, he had to. At least to ask her forgiveness for his silence . . .

    "May I?" he heard her ask. She had sat down before he could say yes.

    "Of course," he stammered. Sarah already had her seat belt fastened.

    She looked out the window and sighed. It was dark and there was nothing to see.

    For a few minutes they just listened to the noise of the engine mov ing the plane over Lazio Province. Then they got used to the noise and didn't hear it anymore.

    Rafael noticed her swollen, red eyes. She'd been crying. "Are you all right, Sarah?"

    "Yes. Fine," she replied immediately, more an automatic response than a sincere one. "And how are you?"

    "As you see," he said with a half smile, "I still don't understand what happened."

    "That's not normal for you," she observed. "You're always ahead of things, not behind."

    Rafael said nothing. It was true, and he felt uncomfortable with the situation. How could he protect her if she knew more than he?

    "Unless you have a trick up your sleeve?" she teased.

    Rafael rolled up his sleeves to show he wasn't hiding anything.

    "JC again, huh?" he asked.

    "Always JC," she replied evasively.
Bringing us together and separat
ing us,
she thought without saying it, even though she wanted to.

    "Was it the Holy See that asked you to recover the parchments?" Rafael was embarrassed to have to ask.

    "Yes. I feel strange telling you these things."

    
And I feel strange asking,
the priest thought.

    He'd never felt so defenseless in front of her, so normal, so like a man.

    "Cardinal William came for me at the hotel last night," she contin ued. Last night? It felt so much longer, like weeks. Fatigue was taking over. It was almost nice, after so many hours on edge, of being constantly alert, suspicious, upset. "He explained JC's plan while it was in action. Kidnapping Ben Isaac's son to make him release the parchments."

    The death of the "Gentlemen" didn't matter to the pope's assassin, or to the church, only the parchments mattered.

    "Have they discovered yet who was behind the murders?" Sarah asked.

    Rafael nodded. At least one thing Sarah didn't know. "The Society of Jesus."

    Sarah was surprised. "The Jesuits? Aren't they supposed to take a vow of chastity and poverty? How can they go around killing people indiscriminately?"

    "It's complicated," Rafael confi ded.

    "Everything's been very complicated. We are carrying around parchments written by Jesus Christ more than ten years after the Cru cifixion," Sarah declared, implying that nothing could be more com plicated than that.

    "Allegedly," Rafael cautioned.

    "Everything is alleged when dealing with the Holy See and Jesus. Even with JC. When I call him a murderer, he says the same thing." She paused, hoping Rafael would go on.

    "Everything indicates that the society, contrary to what is thought, is a fanatical religious organization that hasn't hesitated to use any and all means to eliminate threats to the church for four hundred years."

    "My God!"

    "They are the faithful guardians of some important secrets of the Catholic Church with unimaginable power," Rafael added.

    "Like P2?"

    "Worse than P2. P2 was motivated by money. The society is moti vated by religion, and they are practically everywhere. There's no comparison. Getting JC involved seems like a good decision," Rafael concluded.

    Sarah looked shocked. She couldn't consider herself an expert on the affairs of the Society of Jesus, but she admired their work in help ing the unfortunate and in teaching. The Pontifical Gregorian Univer sity was the heir to the Collegio Romano, a prestigious organization founded in 1551 by the Jesuits and supported in 1584 by Gregory XIII, to whom they paid homage by adopting his name. And there were countless colleges and universities they founded and ran. It was hard to believe the Jesuits could be fanatics, much less terrorists.

    "Aren't the society and the church on the same side?" Sarah really wanted to understand this.

    "They were," Rafael replied."For three centuries. But things changed in the twentieth century," he declared.

    From the beginning, the society acted like a marketing team for the Vatican. They had an easy way of explaining things that laypeo ple could understand, and they started various rituals that the church ended up adopting. One of these was confession, which, until then, didn't exist.

    "Seriously?" Sarah found it curious. There were so many things people just assumed always existed without taking the trouble to real ize that everything was the work of men.

    Rafael nodded. Even today, with rare exceptions, a Jesuit priest heard confession from the pope every seven days.

    "Impressive," Sarah exclaimed. History only reveals one side, the winner's.

    "Where does Gavache come into all this?" Rafael inquired, return ing to a subject he disliked, but couldn't avoid.

    "I presume that JC must have joined the useful with the pleasant. The crimes were related. He's one of the best inspectors in the French police, and probably a connection the old man has in France." She closed her eyes with a touch of regret. She shouldn't have referred to JC like that in front of Rafael.

    He smiled. Silence settled in between them again, but not as awk wardly. Good conversations have their moments of propitious silence, and these should be respected.

    The engines slowed, and the plane began its descent. An attendant came to inform them of this. Only Sarah and Rafael were awake.

    They were silent, feeling inhibited by each other. The technical details were exhausted, only the personal questions remained.

    "I'd like to apologize for my reaction in London that time," Sarah said.

    He said nothing.

    "I didn't have the right to ask you those questions," she continued. The white light in the cabin hid the blush on her face.

    He remained silent. He should say something. He couldn't stay so timid, as he had in Walker's Wine and Ale Bar.

    
Talk! Say something,
he urged himself.

    The plane banked right for a final pass over the runway.

    "I'd like to congratulate you. . . ." he started to say.

    Sarah was suddenly alert. Did he know about her condition?

    "Thank you," she hurried to reply.

    "He's Italian, as far as I know," the priest added.

"Yes. A journalist from Ascoli," she said with some relief.

    "It will all be for the better, certainly," Rafael affi rmed, somewhat embarrassed.

    She couldn't help but feel angry with Rafael, Francesco, and her pregnancy. She tried to control herself. She didn't want to insult him, grab him forcefully, and yell, I'
m here, and I can give you things that
your God never gave you. A
bsurd. Better to end it all now.

    "It will be. I'm pregnant," she heard herself say as the plane touched down on the runway. She closed her eyes. Saying it out loud made everything real, it meant accepting.

    Nothing more was said.

    The plane rolled up to its gate in the middle of Fiumicino Airport, officially named Leonardo da Vinci.

    David Barry approached Rafael.

    "We've arrived in your city."

    "What now? Do you want to certify that the delivery is made?" the priest asked, getting up.

    "No. I've got some things to take care of with Cardinal William and then I'll fly back to London."

    Rafael knew that Barry just wanted to make sure William wouldn't forget him. That's how the world of secrecy worked. A favor always had to be repaid.

    A van with four passengers was waiting for them at the parking area. Rafael was the first to disembark, then Jacopo, clutching the leather case.

    The noise of engines and vehicles everywhere was deafening.

    Rafael let Sarah enter the van first, then followed her.

    "Good evening, Daniel," he said as soon as he sat down by Sarah in the backseat.

    The commander's gloomy face didn't fool anyone.

    "What happened?" Rafael suddenly asked. It wasn't worth beating around the bush.

    Daniel seemed shocked and disoriented.

"Out with it, man!" Rafael urged him.

Barry, Aris, and Jacopo also got in and could see a defeated man.

    "They've kidnapped the secretary and the prefect of the Congrega tion for the Doctrine of the Faith," Daniel stammered, his head down.

    Everyone must have thought
What?
But no one said it out loud. No one had expected that, even Daniel.

    "How did that happen?" Barry asked, intrigued.

    "That doesn't matter now," Rafael interrupted. "They want the parchments, right?"

    Daniel nodded.

    "How much time do we have?"

    Daniel seemed hypnotized, reliving every step since leaving the Vatican, looking for a way around his incompetence and failure.

    "How much time?" Rafael pressed.

    "By ten tonight we're supposed to leave the parchments in the Curia Generalizia on Via dei Penitenzieri."

    "Or what? Are they going to kill the secretary of state and the pre fect?" Jacopo protested. "Do you think they have the balls to do that?"

    "They'll kill all three," Daniel replied in a weak voice.

    "Three? Who's the third?"

    "The pope," Daniel said. "At the moment His Holiness is protected, but one of our agents was an infiltrator. I don't know who's clean and who's not now."

    "We'll clean house later," Rafael said decisively. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes after eight. They had less than two hours. "One thing at a time."

    "Shall we head for Via dei Penitenzieri?" Daniel asked.

    "All this work to hand them over on a tray?" Jacopo complained.

    "No. We're not going to give them anything," Rafael said. He turned to look at Barry. "Can I count on the station in Rome?"

    "Those bastards kidnapped someone I need to talk to," Barry replied. "Let me make some phone calls."

    "What's our destination, then?" Daniel asked. Rafael's certainty was contagious.

    The priest took out his Beretta and checked the chamber. "We're going to find the secretary and prefect. I have an idea where they took them."

R
afael didn't reveal their final destination. In the present state of distrust it was better to rely on himself. He gave the driver direc tions as necessary: T
urn left, right, straight ahead, enter here.

    They entered Via della Gatta, and Rafael told him to park in the Piazza del Collegio Romano. Rafael, Daniel, and two of his men got out, along with Barry and Aris. Only Jacopo, Sarah, and the driver stayed back. Rafael instructed him to drive around the city, far from there, until he received further orders.

    "Can we trust him?" Rafael asked Daniel about the driver.

    The commander sighed. "He's never failed me," he replied with frustration. "But Hugo never did, either."

    Rafael looked the driver in the eye. You can't tell a person from his face. Every evaluation was subjective.

    "Get out of the van," he ordered.

    "What?" the agent asked, puzzled.

    "Get out of the car," Rafael said, and looked at Jacopo. "Take Sarah for a ride."

    "Are you kidding?" Jacopo asked. He was clutching the leather case that held the most important documents in Christianity, and he was clearly upset.

    "Show her your skill as a driver." Rafael smiled.

    Barry, who was on the telephone, clapped the priest on the shoul der. "Fifteen minutes."

    "Okay," Rafael agreed. "Let's hope they aren't late."

    He checked his watch. It was nine fi fteen.

    "Get out of here, Jacopo. Start driving," Rafael ordered, slammed the door, and gave it a slap with his hand. He gave Sarah a fi nal look. He didn't want her stuck in the middle of that craziness.

    Jacopo left, complaining about priests who ordered everyone around. He was tired and hungry.

    "Give the orders," Barry said, impatient to get into action.

    "Follow me."